


roboporn

by quenive



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Edging, Illustrated, M/M, Trust, hal is an android, handjob handjob blowjob, happy late 413 yall, near injury experience, robo cuddles, robot kink!, trust kink? trust kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 21:45:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quenive/pseuds/quenive
Summary: "Humanity must tread carefully as we usher in the age of AI, lest we replace ourselves with an immortal race of metallic fuck gods. Robots can fuck all day and fuck all night without getting tired, and look jacked as hell without ever hitting the gym. It's up to whether artificial intelligence fucks for mankind, or fucks against it." - Ray Kurzweil





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1st aug edit, added "bo" to the dumb title because it irked me to hell and back

Perspiration often works against you, rather than for. Name a more iconic duo than sweat and awkward situations. Go on, you have all the time in the world to wait, and then some.

A lone droplet of sweat rolls down your forehead. With your hair swept back and nothing to absorb it, it leaves a damp mark on your face as it slides down next to your eye, down your cheek, and pauses on your chin. Like it's waiting for something, permission to drop or a cue of some sort. It won't be getting it, you'd be damned if you let it slip your watchful eye. But your eye is more or less useless with your hands occupied, so you use the next best thing, right there, at your disposal.

"H-hal?" Your voice cracks, it's a lot more panicky than you anticipated. Sweat ain't no laughing matter, not in this case.

He's looking up at you and smiling, seemingly worriless while he eyes that one droplet of sweat. He reaches for your scrunched up shirt next to his head and smooshes it in your face. A bit smelly, but manageable. Having your face violently dried with 90% cotton, 9% polyester, 1% questionable substances, isn't as bad as it sounds. You welcome the material with arms sprawled forward and pushing against the wall. Lovely.

Freeze frame. You're kneeling astride his upper stomach, bare as the day you plummeted down into the ocean on a comet, conveniently close to the only building above water for miles. He too is bare, in his own bizarre robo way. The dark grey plating on his chest is gone, exposing his sensitive mechanics for the whole world to ogle. It gets a little reassuring; you're his whole world, and he is yours. His insides are the work of your own hands. You remember, precisely, the way your fingers worked around those wires, the way you carefully placed and connected each and every one. Colors pop, not a single wire is out of place. It took you five years and two prototypes to perfect his design. Right now, with his warm palm engulfing your cock right above his exposed chassis, it would only take a second to ruin it all.

Your head drops. Partially to look at the action downstairs, but mostly because it's just too heavy to keep up. His own head is propped up with two pillows and a lot more comfortable than you with your aching neck and tingling arms. As comfortable as an android can get. The hard mattress isn't doing your knees any good either. All part of the magic, you assure yourself. It's gonna be worth it when he gets you to finish.

Not on him, preferably.

"How does it feel, Dirk?" he asks, voice a familiar mimic of yours, tone warm and more soothing than you give it credit for.

"Terrifying," you answer, genuinely petrified. There's no reason to lie when your whole biography is right there, book wide open and his for the reading. His hand slides up and down your shaft, pulling foreskin over the glans with each tug. Each tug more frustrating than the last, though you're still hesitant about telling him to speed up. As sure as you are in your abilities to restrain a good nut, now you're actually allowed to have some self doubt.

A drop of pre sparkles when he pulls up. Angelic, all biblical and crap. You part your lips in a silent breath, contemplating whether or not you should draw attention to it. By the glance he gives you, by the way his silicone lips stretch into a devious smile, you can tell he's more than aware of the impending threat to his delicate machinery.

His exterior is fully waterproof, or any-form-of-goo-proof, anyways. When he runs his thumb over it you're one tier away from choking on air alone. Minor threat, still a close call. He brings his digit to your mouth and your lips part just enough for it to slide in and force it open. Not like you're resisting, and not like you want to. He doesn't shove it down your throat and he doesn't dislodge your fucking jaw; he just rubs gentle circles into that slimy muscle of yours, making sure you can taste your bitter, petty self on his finger.

You miss his hand on your cock. As if he can read your thoughts, he gets his other hand back on your meat.

"There is no reason for terror," he reassures, fondly, starting to work you back into a whimpering mess. "I am keeping it under control, see. You will find that as long as my hands are on the job, a setback is out of the question. Given, of course, your guns up there don't give up on you. Keep an eye on those puppies."

You notice him sneak a quick peek at your dick, but he doesn't show other signs of worry. No one would blame him for fretting, though. It's his wiring on the line here, not yours, and no pun intended. You close your lips around his thumb but he pulls it back away from your embarrassing need to suckle on something hard.

"I'll manage." Lifting your head up, you mack your lips and swallow hard to wash all the flavor of your dick away. You don't mind much, but a small drop leaves nasty aftertaste.

"I know you will."

Hal's taking his time, working you up and down and testing your patience. Something about the embarrassing sounds your cock is making stirs your insides and makes your whole body flush by an array of shades. Kneeling there, face red and ass slightly elevated from his upper abdomen, you find yourself completely submerged in a vast sea of horny dude hormones.

And then he speeds up.

You drop your head again, taken back by the sheer confidence and determination of his motions. The air smells like your b/o, but your nostrils still pick up the distinct scent of silent fans blowing against machinery. Mental note, watch out for the possibility of overheating. For both of you, ideally.

"My visual sensors indicate a distinct change of demeanor, Dirk," he says. "You're all over the place." You can hear the smirk in his tone, you can see the smirk on his face when you glance up from your dick above his delicate wiring. Mouthbreathing is giving you extreme cottonmouth. It's dry when you try to swallow.

"You see me flopping like a fish," you choke out, rightfully correcting his deliberately shitty observations. Maybe he's toning it down for your sake, or maybe he's saving his snarky self the trouble, who knows. Your muscles tense, knees grow weak, arms go numb.

"On my deck, yes, I am fully aware of your slimy scales soiling my plating."

"Gross," you snort, but then choke on your noises again. He's merciless and you're tired. You want to come, but you don't want him getting the bad end of your climax. That's where the trust part comes in. If you allow your arms to collapse under you, you'd most likely fall nose first into the wall, dick forward into his chest. Provided he doesn't catch you, that is. As long as his hands are on the job, failure is out of the question. Something like that, you're not recalling his exact words right now.

"Your patience is wearing thin," he notes. "I can make it easier on you if you want. Would you like to come now, Dirk?"

Not that he'd let you, even if you wanted to. His question is emphasized with jerks that feel like they're sucking your soul clean out, reverse ghostbusters style. Do you want to finish? God, you do, you so fucking do. But-

"I can't," words resembling sobs and a groan followed shortly after, you somehow manage to squeal out while clawing at the wall supporting you. Blunt nails grow painful, your knuckles go white as soon as they replace them on the wall.

"Not with that attitude." For the first time, you sense nervousness in his tone. Either your pre-orgasm state is making you more woke (woker), or he's just sick of hiding it. Whatever the case might be, you're completely and utterly terrified of hurting him.

At the same time, you trust his judgement completely.

"Hal, please." You don't know what you want anymore, can't even bear to look down anymore, can't hold it anymore. Rephrasing it, you probably _could_ , but you're tired and sweaty and god damn, the danger factor's getting you tingly in places you didn't know could tingle.

So your eyes close shut on their own and you whimper out some incoherent bullshit. Anything that came to mind, really. Hal could probably decipher it as, "holy shit, I'm coming", or maybe "lick a brick, my honey". Either ways, he catches your drift before even you yourself are aware of the intensity of your upcoming orgasm.

Strong but sweet, the nut truck shows its purring engines before flooring it and running into a telephone pole at full velo-

He stops, grips your dick at the base with the loop he made with his two fingers, and you gasp. You feel like collapsing atop your robot boyfriend, but you gather all the strength you have and keep yourself up. Falling is taken into consideration, but that thought gets flushed out of your head before further analysis. Thighs quivering, chest heaving up and down, you groan out in intense frustration, aroused and dissatisfied.

Partially, of course. This is good not-sex sex.

Hal chuckles. Straight up giggles. It's audible and inviting, you open your eyes to look at his bright expression. His fans are loud enough to make out through the intense pounding in your ears.

"You fuck."

You notice his free hand creeping up to rub gentle circles in your thigh. It's a little slick from your dick. Not every drop is finger-fed to you. Bio-lube, as he once put. Organically grown, so fresh it ain't even bottled. Patent pending.

"Not anymore, I'm not." He clears his throat. Although there is no need to do so, he does it so human-like it catches both of you off guard for a fraction of a second. Old habits die hard. "Would you like me to?"

You, on the other hand, have a dry mouth and a lump of spit in your throat. A whole frog could strive in there from its tadpole days. You make it croak by swallowing hard.

"Not here." It's not a no, but you don't want any more risks than you need. Even this is pushing it. Mental note; run a maintenance check once you're both fully in tact. You have so many of those. That one takes priority over the rest.

He contemplates your words for a few seconds, and then lets go of the base of your cock, lets go of your thigh. Your arms feel instantly relieved when he lifts his to give them a boost. All your strength leaves you in an instant, but he's holding you. A signal to finally fully sit on him, and relax.

His hands slide up to yours and he intertwines your fingers as he brings them down.

"How do you want to go?" he asks.

"Now I suddenly have a say in my death sentence?" Your voice is still a little wobbly, but he doesn't seem up for commenting on it. The only reasonable counter is not commenting on his lack of comment.

"You always had." He cocks both of your hands, and his, to gesture. "The matter is fully in your paws, bro. You call all the big shots."

"Bullshit," your scoff is accompanied by a playful eyeroll.

"Noshit. If you lack brain cells to make a coherent decision, I may have to make one for you, putting me in the place of power here."

"Like you weren't google mapping my dick just now." Your boner is still at full capacity, but he's holding your hands hostage. All it would take is a smidgen of a touch, and you'd be out like a candle. Can't even grind on him like this, he has you cornered. But you see what he's doing; he's offering a considerable choice. Indulging him, you push at his hands and slide down to the plating on his stomach, away from the danger. "You can suck me off."

In a quick motion, you're pulled closer to his face when he digs his elbows into the mattress to prop himself up. Hands down, literally, the best position he could have put you in, provided you don't go chest-to-circuits on him. He kisses you, and his mouth is as dry as always. Spit from your tongue, as meager as there is, makes his synthetic muscle easier to glide over.

You're extremely thirsty, and the little moisture you have in there isn't enough for the whole encounter to go as smooth as you want it to. Nonetheless, you kiss him as you'd kiss any human. Puffs of air your nose desperately fluctuates through gives him the general idea that you need to properly breathe to function. Getting steam on the silicone of his pale face has nothing to do with it.

The two of you part, and you inhale, exhale, shakily. Hal is visibly amused. Thrilled to indulge, you go back in for another one, but he hoists himself up into a sitting position before you get the chance to do so. Simultaneously, you slide down fully on his lap and hit your ass when he abruptly bounces his thighs.

"I should patch you up," you think out loud, but he shakes his head a no in response.

"Now where would the fun in that be?"

"Hal-"

A pretty legitimate attempt to reason with him was made, but he hushes you before you get the chance to finish that thought.

"Your hands are awfully sweaty," he notes. "And your cock is tremendously hard. Are you in any position to be tinkering around in here? Doubtful."

"Don't be an idiot." Just the thought of your dick made the mentioned rapscallion twitch. Idiot has a point, but you have several. "You can do it yourself. I don't wanna be the one responsible for jizz clogging your techno arteries or whatever."

"It seems you are overestimating my ability to perform live surgery on myself, and underestimating my skills in handling your crotch python. You don't want to do that, Dirk." He finally lets go of your hands. You put them on his shoulders for safe keeping. They're broad and firm, something it took you years to grow into, but only a minor tweak to get him to have. You like them this way.

"I don't," confirming, you slide your right hand out of his and up his shoulder, rest it by his neck, thumb sliding under his ear where his hair laid lazily.

You're proud of that. This is the only vessel with such luscious locks, and man was it a bitch to get down. Not a true mimic of yours, but more him than you. It's not ruined by a fuckload of products, it's way softer than yours will ever be. Somewhere in the near future you'll stop having inner robo construction monologues with the purpose of jerking your own ego, but that day isn't today, and you have every right to be in awe at the body crafted by you, designed and inhabited by him.

Shit aside, you pride yourself on the ability to follow complex instructions and shit out a completely legitimate robot in the span of a year.

He nods, subtly inching towards the touch like a caress starved cat. His hands slide down your waist, your hips buck forward to get your dick some action. Albeit, futile. How is he ever going to transition smoothly from this position to a more suck-friendly one? Beats the heck out of you, you who is enjoying what's currently on his plate. Or, enjoying the plate he's on. Inward wording refusing to work in your favor can go suck a dick, you feel like a garbage bag full of sliced jello. Like the pressure can make you burst any moment, or like you might just tear under the spots he grazes.

Hal's hands are oblivious to the corners your mind wants to shrivel in. His palms are smooth against your garbage bag exterior. Like a labrador's mouth with a thin-shelled egg. You try not to laugh when you imagine telling him to carry your eggs in his mouth.

Not like he isn't going to. He presses against your stomach with his right hand. Sometimes you just want to curl in on both yourself and him, but your eyes are stationed on his face and they completely refuse to monitor the hand that's scouting the area, feeling up the tense muscle. Those hands can rip you to shreds. Your dick sighs.

And so do you. Palm laying flat against your chest, you conclude that he'll just have to live with that thought right now. Thought? Your heart. It's beating for him, it's wildly beating just because of him. You'd prefer if he was wildly beating your dick right now, but as you two lock eyes in a sappy sap fest full of restless love and unreasonable yearning, you're kind of glad you get such a soft moment pausing the previous endeavor.

Until his hand is on your chest and he looks at you like he's a man on a mission. Which, coincidentally, he so fucking is.

"Duck," he presses, gently.

Duck. You'd laugh if you weren't concentrating on keeping your balance steady enough not to violently drop down. It isn't even ducking. It's just dumb.

"Dumb." You're laying down, propping yourself up on your elbows. Oh how the tables have turned, Dirk. The layer becomes the layee. His legs are chafing you. You choose to ignore this for the greater good.

"Just lay back," he pulls his hands away, and now both of them are gliding over your thighs, rubbing on the inside of them, so close to the goal but he just refuses to touch you where you most need the lovin'.

"Okay."

You tilt your head back. It proves to be a little easier on the neck and the only thing you have to pay with is your eyesight and the ability to observe and evaluate the situation. The unpredictability factor's got you bucking up when he brushes a finger along your shaft. Feather-like touches and you're so turned on again (as if you ever stopped being a human furnace). Gentle humming from

Something in the back of your mind tells you that you deserve every minute of this. This, being taken care of, being under his precise hands and just letting loose what's been building up for a while. Not even you can handle yourself the way he handles you. But at the same exact time, something other is getting you to wallow in guilt for actually giving your head some rest. It's like you can't win. Are you even the same person anymore? You're not, are you. He's so good to you. You're so good to him. How could you ever be so gentle to yourself?

When did he get lube? You close your eyes once his hand is back on your dick again, smearing the clear liquid all over you and making you pant in despair, but shoot them right back wide open once it's gone as abruptly as it got there. He cups your asscheeks and hoists your hips up. Is this how you fucking die? You're not sure, but his mouth is on you and if this is death and if he's some unholy embodiment of a bogus celestial entity, then to hell with it all, you don't want to be alive.

It drags on for a while. It's mostly you, attempting to accommodate him by keeping your ass up, and mostly him shooting down that option, lifting you some arousingly uncomfortable angles. The tips of his fingers dig into your butt and he even kneads for extra effect. Some stirring in your gut tells you that it's working. Your hands are busy clutching at the sheets of your bed. Kind of glad you cut your nails there, by doing so you skillfully avoided hurting both yourself and the bed you sleep on.

You must be mad, thinking about beds and nails while your dick is getting thoroughly sucked by a robot of _your fucking design_. The inside of his mouth is smooth. Lube helps your cock slide in and out. He deepthroats you, swallows around you with artificial muscles pressing from every angle. At times you feel his nose press against your skin, no choking noises, no flinching, wincing, no hesitation.

His self proclaimed title leaves your mouth over and over again. That name grew on you along with him. The only thing you feel is this explosion of love before you finish, too sore in the throat to actually speak anymore and too tired to attempt. When he lets go of your ass you slump down.

Slump down on the bed. His legs are gone and so is he. The air kind of stings your throat when you breathe in through your mouth, but your nostrils also burn when you switch to them. You can't win, can you?

False, you're already the winner here. You just kind of lay there, gathering your thoughts, trying to minimize the suffering to your best abilities. Sore, but good.

Hal returns with a bottle of soda and a grey shirt covering his upper body. Maybe he didn't fix the literal (and totally not harboring a deeper/metaphorical meaning) hole in his chest yet but he sure looks good in your clothes. Out of sight, out of mind. Glorious. Sure eases that rampaging brain of yours.

Neither of you talk much, but it's not a bad vibe. The air is humid, your naked body is sore. You thank Hal for the clothes he brings you shortly after, prioritizing post-kinda-sex cuddling over showers. Showers are to be had at any time, but Hal isn't.

Kind of is, but you're not risking it.

You're holding each other, he calls you a wannabe marsupial. You counter him with some unsettling babble about laptop insurance. He's even up for pretending to sleep next to you which is a little more than your fragile, post-climax human heart can take at the moment. Something in him urges him to accommodate, you assume. Desire to please masked in constant cynicism and snark, occasional taunts and jabs in soft places you wish you didn't have. Sharp edges both of you once flaunted got dulled down over the years. Hal's touching your hair throughout your whole pseudo-argument, whispering the benefits of mammalian pouches into your ear. It tickles and you laugh. His "skin" is always so soft to the touch, his breath smells like fruity lube, his voice is a heart shaped arrow in your heart. You love him.

_He loves you._ The thought rings in your head as you doze off, safe in his robo arms, ears buzzing with his robo buzz. It's comforting. The word keeps coming back at you from time to time and you've started welcoming it with open arms.

 

 

You dream about a flooded mall you always wanted to explore as a kid, ever since you spotted the billboard while you were diving. Maybe someday soon. Mental note to bring it up to him gets a stamp. It's locked in your brain vault, unknown to you, waiting for the combination to resurface as soon as you wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> bitchin' ass art by tou-rni-quet.tumblr.com!


End file.
